In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell Page B

her eyes. Some things never change, however much you wish them to.
    Slowly she walked over to the far corner where her mother’s loom had once stood. It was here Martha wove the rugs and tapestries that tourists bought as souvenirs. Although the wide pine planks had been trod upon by a thousand different feet, the funny little discoloration in the wood was still there. Barely discernible to someone not looking for it, if you tilted your head at just the right angle you could see it. Mary knelt and covered it with her hand. It was here, at this point in the universe, that Martha Crow’s heart had stopped and Mary Crow’s heart had been broken forever.
    She stared at the spot until she heard Joan and Alex coming out of the bathroom. Then she stood up quickly and turned away.
    She used the bathroom herself, enjoying, one final time, the amenities of toilet paper and running water. Then she joined Joan and Alex, who were admiring Jonathan’s snapshot of Jodie Foster.
    â€œReady, scouts?” she asked them.
    â€œI am.” Alex grabbed her bag of candy bars.
    â€œI’ve got my smokes,” added Joan.
    â€œYou ladies have a safe hike.” Jonathan grinned, and raised one hand to Mary. “See you later,” he called softly. “Be careful.”
    â€œBye.” She followed her friends to the door. Pausing, she turned back toward the counter. “Say, Jonathan, who’s the sheriff up here these days?”
    â€œStump Logan,” he answered. “Same old fart as when your mother . . .” He stopped abruptly, horrified at the words he’d almost said. “He’s fishing on Grapevine Creek,” he amended quickly.
    â€œThanks,” she replied. “Maybe I’ll get in touch with him sometime.” She smiled at him. “It was nice seeing you.”
    â€œCome back soon,” he invited, his voice buoyant with hope. “No need to be a stranger.”
    She waved, then hurried to the car, almost bumping into the sandy-haired fisherman, who was ambling back to his car with a new fly for his rod.
    â€œYo, Mary, who was that hunk behind the counter?” Joan demanded from the backseat as Alex started the engine. “I’m sensing a little
historia
here, know what I mean?”
    Mary stared at the store until Alex pulled out of the parking lot. “You sensed right, counselor,” she finally replied. “
Historia
is the one thing Little Jump Off is lousy with.”

SIX
    I’ll be damned!” Jonathan Walkingstick hurried to the door and watched as the red Beemer skidded in the gravel and pulled back onto the highway. The car hesitated once, then sped around the curve, the blonde girl’s hair blowing like flax in the wind.
    Suddenly he felt as if he’d been kicked hard, and in the stomach. After twelve years, Mary Crow had just waltzed back into his life, and had looked damn good. Stylish in the way of city women, but different, too. Strong. Confident. Jonathan sighed and rubbed at an invisible spot on the windowpane. Mary must be doing okay.
    He’d sneaked off to see her once in Atlanta, although he’d never told a soul. He’d accompanied his girlfriend, Lena Owle, to a teachers’ convention, and while Lena attended her meetings he’d ridden the subway out to the Deckard County courthouse. He spotted Mary the instant he walked in the door. Black suit, spike heels, skirt just touching the interesting part of a woman’s thigh. Her breasts pushed against the deep V of her suit lapels, and he’d felt himself growing hard just looking at her. She’d hurried into a courtroom, and he’d snuck in behind her and hastily taken a seat in the back row. For the rest of the day, or at least until he had to meet Lena, he’d watched Mary work the jury as cannily as a collie herding sheep. He had to leave before the case was decided, but he knew the accused was well on his way upriver. Afterwards he’d